Chapter Text
"No, thank you, brother." Loki laughed drily and risked taking off his glamour as his brother turned away to walk out of the hall, with glee in his strides, his mood so plain for all to see.
Yes, you foolish oaf, go back to your precious little mortals and play house for a few more years. While they last.
Snorting out of contempt, Loki reclined back into his throne and slouched, Gungnir held loosely in his right hand, tilted and leaning on the golden hand rest. He had a look of boredom in his eyes, as he took in the hall in front of him for the umpteenth time since he sat there, trying to drown out the soft tinkering of repairs that could be heard all over Asgard.
It was mid day, two days after the defeat of Malekith the Accursed. Or rather, 'the triumph of Thor Odinson over the Dark Elves'. Oh, Loki had no doubt that's what the historians and scholars were writing down in the royal scrolls.
The hall was without guards. The vaults and prison were guarded, the rest of the guards and warriors were given respite to reunite with their families, and to lay to rest their fallen comrades. When Loki delivered this order, the generals had put up weak protests, concerned they no doubt were of Asgard's safety, yet within their cores were warm beating hearts weary of battles and concerned for their families and loved ones. It did not need a Silvertongue to persuade them to go along with the decision.
Tomorrow evening, there will be a feast in the great hall to celebrate Thor's triumphant battle against Malekith. Loki liked feast not a single bit, but that was what Asgard needed, and so it had to be done. Feasts after battles for all battled warriors to tell glorious tales of their heroic deeds and give toasts to those welcomed into Valhalla, amongst them their beloved Queen Frigga.
Loki's eyes dimmed at the thought. The guards had told him that Frigga was given a solemn send-off with grandeur fitting of a benevolent and beloved Queen.
The Golden Realm was still recovering from the Dark Elves' attack. The throne room was the first place to be repaired. Not a crack could be seen on the numerous massive columns supporting the golden hall. The golden floor sparkling without a trace of burn mark or Aesir blood. The throne remoulded overnight. All made possible by the craftsmanship of Niðavellir, the best all Nine Realms could offer.
He has sent Odin's ravens to Niðavellir as soon as the battle was over and he was not surprised to learn the dwarves had already gathered their most talented with the best tools and precious metals, ready for the All Father's summon.
Niðavellir dwarves were a passionate kind, hot-blooded and proud of their craftsmanship, and most important of all, forever loyal and steadfast to those who earned such respects from them. The All Father was one of those, apparently.
Their realm's eternal fire created the Golden Forge that could merge metals with Sedir and runes, giving power and life to the gems and metals baptised by the scorching heat from their eternal forge. Their best smith Andvare was held with the highest respect by all dwarves, even Hreidmar the Dwarven King. Last evening, the entourage of a dozen dwarven smiths filed into the throne room with Andvare in lead, offered their condolences and respects for the late Queen, and pledged their Realm's allegiance in restoring Asgard to her glory. They were personally offended by the Dark Elves' destruction to the Golden City, as most of the entourage were probably old enough to have participated in the constructions of most of Asgard's defences and weapons.
Well, judging by the lengthy brown or dark braids and beards, they might have been a novice or apprentice at that time. That old smith with white beard and hair and a hunched back, though, was probably old enough to have been a master at that time. He had kept nodding approvingly when Andvare was speaking on behalf of them, and his eyes had a strange glint, eyeing Gungnir.
After the elite team of Niðavellir masters finished working on the throne room, they have split up to assist in different parts of repairing the city's defences and structures. It turned out Brokkr was the old smith's name. Loki couldn't recognize him in his old age. Time was cruel on dwarves, affecting them more than Aesirs. Brokkr had perhaps another hundred years or less, Loki reckoned.
While all of dwarves were well trained in blacksmith, they had their preferred Schools of Artisanship. Not that most Asgardians would care to know. Dwarves were maticulate with their skills just like Asgardians would pride their physical strengths. To refer to them all as 'blacksmith' would be offensive. They had split their training into thousands of streams. Some dwarves liked architecture, some liked transportation systems, some liked weaponries, some liked arts and some liked wearable objects, so on and so forth. Brokkr's eyes gleamed with contained excitement as Loki suggested he extend his help repairing the force shield and weapon systems. And Andvare was more comfortable with carvings and volunteered to fix Borr's statue by the waterfall.
Andvare. That stoic hasn't changed at all. Well, if one doesn't count his pepper and salt beard and hair.
Loki's lips curled into a smirk as he recalled how he, as a young prince of Asgard, at a feast welcoming the Niðavellir's ambassador, had persuaded Andvare into a bargain that resulted in him obtaining all of the smith's possessions. The transfer of ownership of the cursed ring Andvarenaut was the ultimate reason why both sides wanted to strike the bargain in the first place.
Andvare would give Andvarenaut to Loki for eight days, in exchange, Loki would offer the sad miserable smith eight days of happiness. It was a small bonus that the smith offered all his possessions to Loki in gratitude for taking on the bargain.
The bargain was truly fair and honest. Loki would still frowned upon this.
After all, to bless Andvare with happiness, one simply needs to remove Andvarenaut from his possession. The cursed ring had many powers, but it casted a shadow of impending doom over its owner, washing its owner in wave after wave of misery.
In the end, it was not Loki who broke the bargain, or did he cheat. If Loki was later accused of being unusually joyful and boisterous at the feast, approaching Andvare and engaging the poor smith in merry conversations, thus planting the seed of envy in the smith, well, who could really prove that?
Andvare, who had owned the cursed ring for centuries, simply couldn't cope with the long lost taste of happiness and was driven into a state of insanity the next morning, much to everyone's especially Loki's dismay. The entourage was scheduled to depart in mid-day, and that could have been the last he would had to hear of it. However, as the Niðavellir ambassador gave a departing speech on behalf of the entourage, Andvare interrupted the speech by bursting into tears and began singing an ode of joy complete with a traditional dwarven dance. Despite the smith's reassurances that he was fine, the All Father was alarmed at the overnight change in mannerism of the stoic smith, and that was when he noticed the missing ring on Andvare's thumb.
It was needless to recount what happened next, but that was how Odin had gained unwavering respect (and for Loki, unwavering hatred) from the dwarves. Loki let out a soft sigh, stopping his trip down the memory lane.
If only I could keep the ring until the eighth day. Count on the 'righteous' All Father to mess up my 'devious' plans.
Speaking of the All Father. Loki looked to the direction of the chamber where Odin currently rested, and huffed.
Well, I might as well take a walk. Perhaps to the kitchen? They are preparing an important feast, after all. Who's peckish? Not me.
At that, Loki rose from the golden throne, struck Gungnir to the floor, restored his glamour, and started descending the dais.
Norns, my back side is hurting me. Maybe I should put a cushion on the throne. No wonder why the old man was always so moody.
Loki tried to wriggle and ease his ache as inconspicuously as possible while he walked across the throne room.
It surely is not easy to move with grace at old age. Did the old man continue his training and sparred regularly? I know Fury kept on with his physically training.
That one-eyed leather-fetish 'Let me know when higher power wants a magazine' Director of SHIELD.
Loki's lips pursed at the thought.
Seeing Clint getting his arse handed to him by Fury or Natasha is definitely one of the favourite memories I've read from this pitiful mortal's mind. His little trip to Budapest, the second.
Loki made an amused hum as he finally reached the end of the hall, he straightened his posture and headed for the royal kitchen.
Why a magazine anyway? I have no use for guns but they are effective on mortals, aren't they? How curious.
And if later that evening Andvare received a note from Odin commissioning a new throne that was still solid gold but felt like a sofa, and the poor smith then stayed up all night to research what a 'sofa' was, and finally had resorted to sheepishly ask the All-Father the next morning, that's all in your imagination.